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"Alright, partners. There's a psychopath in there," Redman says, nodding towards Daniels, a grin slowly forming on her face, showing the edges of her crow's feet. "Stalking jazz clubs and dead-end jobs looking for his prey. Emotionally manipulative, isolating, prone to violent outbursts when his victims reach for the support networks. Possibly some sort of banshee, or hypnotist." She raises her eyebrows to control.

Control nods along to Carver and lets his tin can throat ring-a-ling with a chuckle, "Hazard pay? Not likelyy, ladyy."

He hops up from his chair with an almost surprising touch of grace, especially when the next step he takes is heavy with a limp in his left leg. It drags dully behind him as he shuffles over to your slab, Redman. He leans in close to you, squaring your shoulders with the edges of the examination table. He smells of cigarettes. You feel cold metal touch your cheek under your eye, and drag a chilly line down to your lips.

"Sorryy, Agent Redman -- nose chain." He plucks it from your face with a nervous chuckle. "You're in first. Greeen-level for calibration, then into Blue Cityy. I'll drop you at a nice cafe, okay, baybay? I'll piing you once thee others are in."

His off-hand taps his brow when he says ping, but its all silhouettes now as he looms over you where you lay.

"At thee buzz, thee time will bee 0650 hours, dive. Close your eyes, Agent Redman. Thiink sleeepy thoughts. I'll help you reelax." His breath is carcinogens and mouthwash, hot on your skin, and you feel that nose chain graze your ear as leans past your head. His lips part and you feel him inhale as he gets an inch from your ear, and speaks. All you hear is static -- all you've been conditioned to hear is static. When Control gives you the REM-induction trigger phrase, intended to immediately shut down your higher brain functions and catapult you feet first into the deep end of the dream pool, you hear nothing but static. Supposedly, its a safety measure. Supposedly, its a security feature -- a secret first half of a two part trigger phrase to which each agent must supply the matching partner.

Algonquin Green Gecko, met with Michigan Nitro Baker. Thirteen-Thirteen Mockingbird Lane, met with I Preferred The Addams Family. Knock knock jokes and oft-misremembered classic cinema quotes. Code combinations of that sort. Every mystery agent was permitted to prepare their own selected response-phrase. It allowed a small slice of personality and uniqueness to be carved out in the security-conscious, isolating, and potentially soul-crushing job of federal agent.

So, Redman, when you feel the pop of hot air in your ear and hear the television white noise scratch itself against your eardrum. You respond, you say something back. You say your half of the REM-trigger. You maybe even remember your lips beginning to part. You don't remember saying it though. You're asleep, and you're deep, deep, deep in it. Far on down in the reaches and your brain is dozing peacefully, bringing everything in your body with it. Your heart settles into its steady resting rhythm, and your breathing fades to a bare wisp crossing your lips.

Control walks up to Carver next. "I'll give Agent Redman five minutes, and then you're in."z

0650 hours, dive, green-level

Redman, you're sitting under a flowering tree on a rolling hillside, behind you a great, broad, old tree rests. Its branches hang low, like a kindly grandfather photographed mid-exhale -- folded inwards, round in the middle, arms sagging. Before you, the hill drops away rapidly and seemingly never ends, wrapping around the horizon far in the distance. The grass is green and knee-high, so it has nearly swallowed you up, sitting as you are among the tangled roots of that old tree. You can smell salt in the air, and something like barbecued hot dogs on the Fourth of July. You've been sitting here all day, and it has been lovely. Not a cloud in the sky, not a hint of rain. It was really great of The Company to give you the day off so you could appreciate this perfect weather...

And then perhaps you recall that The Company doesn't give holidays off. Maybe you pick up the book in your lap and find that all of the text inside spirals in on itself like a water-logged, ink-smudged love-child of Arabic and Pali, as imagined by Lovecraft. Maybe you hear the faint orphaned notes of a saxophone solo, croaked out from the heart of the tree -- and looking behind you, finding no tree but instead discovering the bedroom of Carl Daniels had been there all along, with a lone record player groaning on and on.

You realize that all along the roots have been made of shag, and you're not smelling salt in the air; you're tasting cheerios on the tip of your tongue.

You're on Green-level. It sinks in. You're meant to be getting the mission underway. Turning again, down the hill, half-covered by the tall and thin blades of grass, you spy something. The grass is the perfect summer-time hue. Vibrant. Inviting. Enticing. And amid the stalks, you see black iron handrails and the very tops of a flight of red brick steps. Down they lead, into the ground, into Blue City. An octagonal sign sits on a wooden post just behind the handrails. It has no markings or text; it's just a sign and a color. A blue sign. Blue City.

Starting when you go under, include at the top of every post your current Heart Rate. You always start at your Resting Heart Rate. The most convenient way of noting this for me and everyone is probably:

I'll talk more about dice-rolling and Heart Rates when Carver and Chaffer join Redman in the City. For now, Redman, next post: Start it with 75bpm at the top.

In response to Egos' question: The rules of Blue City fluctuate. When in any parts of the City considered blue-level, things will be stable and fairly consistent. That's why the City is called Blue City -- it has a pretty constant shape and set of rules that you can navigate. But certain areas are Deep Blue, and subject to the more questionable whims of the human subconscious, and potentially influenced by the criminal subject you're investigating.

Doing Matrix-style stunts are governed by the Techniques you can develop over time. The closest thing to bad-ass reality-warping stunts is the special benefits of your Heart Rate hitting its target range. I'll detail this more soon.

Redman sways back and forth, feeling the wind in her hair and listening to the soft Jazz on the breeze.

"Ahh, maybe I should just move out here... get a little house, get away from the city, y'know? Things are just more... real out in the country." Redman moves to take off her tie, closing her eyes and smiling wide, before snapping back to her senses. "This black tie. This black... standard issue... Dive tie. Right. The relaxation probably should've tipped me off." She shakes the hair away from her face, putting it back in a neat bun, while scraping dirt from the soles of her shoes onto the thick, shag ground. She peers down. "Or that. Also probably a tip-off, I suppose."

She eyes the stop sign for a moment. Stares down the steps. Y'know, if I hated myself a little more, I could just go for it. But alas, the Company way, and all that Jazz.

Jazz. It gets louder in the air. Scratchier. Bumping and warbling, almost imperceptibly. More focused. She turns, traces the noise to its location. A bedroom--his bedroom. She stands, taking it in, making mental notes.

Control settles you in, Carver and he stares down at his wrist for a few silent, heavy moments. You see a little blue crescent fold into view on his face and realize he's smiling.

"That should bee long eenough."

Slowly, his foot trailing behind him, he moves back to Redman's side and speaks again. "Down down, Agent Redman. Step livelyy now." He stands silent, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, whispering. Then, back to your side.

He shifts his head and those skull-socket eyes are staring down at you. You realize, he's closed his eyes and is listening. You hear it too. A small mumble drifting from between Redman's unconscious lips. "Shee's in. Best not to keeep thee Leead Agent waitiing."

"Time to say night night," he leans in and then you hear the scritch-a-scritch of static in your brain when he leans in and says the magic words. And mentally, you're gone, swallowed up by the relaxing darkness. Your senses dive deep down.

Control comes for you next, Chaffer. He takes an extra moment, examining the machines that have been rolled up next to you. "When you're under, Agent Chaffer, reemind thee ladiies to bee careful down there. They wouldn't want to draw anyy undue attention."

"Oh, and remember. Stay out of any Deeep Blue Zones. I'll keeep you all apprised of them as I deetect them around you. For now, play it safe and assume its thee obviious places -- Daniels' bedroom, thiings like that." Then, static in your ear, tickling at your brain, and into the deep you go.

So, from now on, keep score in green what your Heart Rate is at the top of your posts. You're at resting heart rate for now.

Setting wise: Blue is a stable and safe zone, which is why Blue City has its name. Deep Blue Zones are restricted, officially, to Senior Agents because of their unstable topography or association with Hostile Personalities. Do Not Enter Black Zones.

z

Green-level, dive

Redman, you're facing Daniels' bedroom. The jazz is scratchy. All of the best parts of the solo are eaten up and spat out with iron teeth. Like you've got cotton in your ears, you're missing all of the good notes and you're left with the bad.

The scene before you: the bedroom looks as normal as can be -- a queen bed. The sheets are undone, tossed about. Two pillows, crumpled, at the headboard. The frame is wooden. One nightstand, an old fashioned round and yellow metal alarm clock. You can't read the numbers -- you never can read anything down here. A wood panel floor. A closet in the corner. All seems plain and simple. The surreal, though, is in the details.

The floor stops about halfway before it reaches you, Redman. The wood panels become irregular -- scattered in the grass -- and never reach you. Like a tornado had torn a house in half, and scattered what was left on a lovely hillside for you to find. The grass is overgrown, and you can see bits of it sticking between the seams in Daniels' bedroom. You can feel the sun beating down on you from behind, but little light hits any of the furniture or the far wall of the half-room sitting before you. The dream logic is simple: the lamp on the night table is off, so of course the room is dark. Like a sitcom and the fourth wall is all gone, leaving you and the sun staring in.

You can taste cheerios and smell wet dirt, fresh with rain, mingled with wood-cleaner and moth balls.

And then, you're plunged into the two-tone black and white of near-darkness. Like a magician's slight of hand, you looked one way, and suddenly you're the audience member stuck in the box. The grass and the shag carpet are nowhere to be found under your feet. Looking down, its all wood panel. No grass grows through it. Your back is cold through your suit jacket, pressed up against a likewise cold wall. To your left, another wall -- to your right, the same, this one with landscape photography. The walls are painted white, with a thin waist-high border of blue traced all around the room. It disappears behind the bed, which sits pressed up against the far wall.

The record player sits on the floor to your right, still spinning but all out of music to play.

The door from the bedroom, looking out into a narrow hallway, sits half-cracked on the far end of the wall to your left. The room is maybe twenty feet by twenty-five feet in area. If you were to turn around, you would see the fourth wall of the room. Any trace of Green-level is gone -- its scenery, along with its reassuring and distracting comfort. You hear a whisper on the wind dancing in your brain with radio static for its partner, saying down down agent redman step livelyy now.

You're in Blue City.

Setting stuff: Blue City, for whatever subconscious reason that humanity possesses, seems temporally locked in a permanent state of 1950-something. While the language spoken is (a heavily-inflected) form of English, the written language is illegible -- either because of dream logic or something else, The Company doesn't yet know. Homes tend to be very white-picket fence America deals, the City itself looks like a gray cobble stone rendition of Old Paris, or Old England. Or Old East Europe. So, 1950s America sort of decor, 1950s Europe sort of street-faces and storefronts.

So, time for the first die rolls of the game.

Chaffer, Carver: You need to roll Access (Navigation) for your insertion into Blue City. Take a number of d6s equal to your Access score. You want to get an 11. If you have Navigation as your Talent, roll an extra die.

rules chatter: That's how die rolls work in this game. Roll dice equal to the appropriate score. If you fail, you can re-roll your dice and try again. You can, in fact, re-roll as many times as you want to.

However: every die roll you make, adds to your Heart Rate. Roll a 6? Add 6 to your HR. Re-roll and get 11? Add 11 to your HR. Re-re-roll and get a 12? Add 12 to your HR, for a total of +29, but at least you finally succeeded.

If you have a Talent, you can choose (before or after a failure) to roll an additional d6. Sometimes 1d6 is the difference between a cheap success and a costly re-re-re-re-roll, ya see?

Successes are 11+. Failues are anything less than an 11. If you succeed, you get what you want. In this case, to appear in the same place as Redman. If you get an 11, you can basically go ahead and narrate the immediate outcome. You don't have to wait for me to do that, as long as you don't go introducing complete random things out of left field. If you fail, I'll handle narrating failures, but they'll generally go poorly.

Note: This ONE time, you do NOT add your dice result to your HR. You just got inserted. Your heart is all peaceful like. This doesn't affect you negatively. However, you don't get to re-roll this one time either.

One minute, Chaffer, you're relaxed on a mortician's slab, staring up into the blue lights of the medical theater.

The next, you're staring into the blue eyes of a young blond woman.

A screaming young blond woman.

A screaming young blond woman, wrapping herself up in a black and white floral pattern shower curtain.

Behind you, a well-scrubbed toilet and sink. A medicine cabinet with mirror, reflecting your face. To your right, a small bathroom window looking out on an inner-city fire escape and a thin pedestrian-only cobblestone road. Blue City's ubiquitous haze of rainfall persists, streaking the window with tiny gray rivulets.

A bar of soap strikes the linoleum wall over your left shoulder, spraying white flecks onto your black jacket, before ricocheting into the toilet with a wet plunk.

By now, the woman is in a heap on the floor of the shower. The curtain is heavy and sagging with water, clinging to her like a gaudy dress, outlining her figure in a manner she doesn't intend.
Redman, you have a few spare moments to examine quote-unquote Daniels' bedroom -- hard to really call it that, being a subconscious projection of a Hostile Personality and all. Enough time to take in the sights, sift through a few drawers or the like. But then, you hear a young woman scream from out in the hall. You hear a shower curtain's metal rings slip from a metal bar.

If you wanted, you have the time to make an Instinct (Investigation) check before you hear the woman scream about Chaffer's presence.

"Shit, shit shit shit. The one place I don't want to be right now, alone in a harpy's bedroom." Redman's nose begins to flair, the wrinkles around her quivering lips begin to show. She gently slaps herself, and tries to regain her breath--mostly succeeding. "Alright, what can we make of this."

She spies the room. Undone sheets. Rumpled pillows. Awful messy bed setup for a serial killer. Let's see what else we can find.

A moment later, the scream. Redman's lips quiver. "He wouldn't. Not in his own building, not again. Would he? ...Christ, I need a gun." She turns, and slips out the door, reaching into her jacket pocket and thinking just as hard as she can.

Every roll, including re-rolls. So, in your case, you'll add 17bpm from your two Instinct (Investigation) rolls -- and then you'll add 17bpm from your Access (Logistics) roll. (17 because I looked at your roll. You rolled 5d6, which I figured you did because of your Logistics Talent. You don't have to choose to roll that bonus die until after you're sure you've failed, so I just took the first four dice from your link).

So, total: You're adding 34bpm to your Heart Rate.

That will put you in your Target Heart Rate next post. Remember to make your HR yellow.

zzz

You take in the scene, Redman. Queen bed. Comfy looking. Two pillows -- a single night stand with a lamp and a clock. However, it's also holding a small compact mirror and a clutch. Likely not Daniels', but no second night stand means either a random hook-up or a short term girlfriend. A wife would get her own night stand.

In the clutch, a few ticket stubs. Some kind of club, probably jazz. The address is illegible, though. You can't read Blue City script. However, two ticket stubs means a date or a business meeting. Business meetings don't usually involve jazz music.

Add to that, Landscape photography on the wall -- amateur photography. One of them is a little out of focus. Not much, mind you. Just enough that it wouldn't get put to market, except maybe as a personal gift. Add to that, there's no such thing as pop culture in Blue City. Every artistic endeavor is one of a kind. Each photo on his wall is likely the only one of its kind in the City, or one of a small set of copies. They're presents, most likely. Confirms the girlfriend angle. Lovers don't get their art hung on the wall.

The bed is unmade, and warm. Someone was sleeping in. Just got out of it not too long ago. Likely, the lover is still in the house then. Or Daniels. Or both.

Then, the scream hits your ears and out into the hall you bound, thinking really loudly how nice it'd be to have a gun in your jacket.

The hall is narrow. Eggshell white paint. A large window at the end of the hall faces out into a quaint European-looking market square. Small shops peddle their wares and food but you can't read the names of any or know what they offer until you go look. Halfway down the hall, a door stands on your right side. The screaming is coming from inside.

Chaffer doesn't know how to react at first, he then realizes he should be cover his eyes.

"I am really , really , reallysorry. I did not know somebody was in here." He slowly creeps towards the door , one hand behind the back reaches for the doorknob while his other remains firmly over his eyes. His raises his index finger to get a glimpse of the woman curled at the bottom of the shower. He clenches his teeth.

"You ok?" he asks in an attempt to show compassion and to show he isn't a threat. To help with this he goes back to covering his eye, he also hopes to have found the door handle by now and opened it to make it look like he entered by accident.

He begins to speak very fast and apologetically
"I'm really sorry. I'm kind of out it at the moment. I just had two of my wisdom teeth pulled. So..." after the door is open he gestures with his now free hand emotively " you know how you can get kinda wonky even after the IV. I just came in here to get some Tylenol." He quickly turns in the direction of the mirror , he raises his index finger again and quickly opens the cabinet and grabs a bottle that looks like aspirin -something with a red label and then promptly shuts the mirror. He shuts hand to cover his eyes again , turning to face the woman , he shows her the bottle "And I found it!" He inhales. "I'll just make my way out now... I"m Rick , by the way... I'm a fr-" Chaffer was about to say friend but he remembered Daniels had no friends "cousin of Carl's. Since the dentist was only a few blocks from here and I don't have a car, he said I could stop by." Eyes still covered he points at her with the hand holding the Tylenol bottle "Elizabeth, right? Eh I should um be getting out of here." Chaffer exits , before shutting the door "Sorry again, hopefully we can meet again under better circumstances.."

He quickly scurries away. "Fuck, fuck,fuck." he says under his breath. "I bet you're smiling up there ..." he tried to think of a nickname for the potentially Jamaican name but he wasn't feeling particularly clever

The door in front of you, Redman, swings into the bathroom. On the other end of the door knob is Agent Chaffer, his free hand covering his face. He exits the bathroom suddenly, nearly bowling you over in the process -- the hallway is about as wide as one and a half adults, so its a squeeze. He's mumbling to himself, saying fuck a lot, and seemingly grumbling at Control. Off to a good start, Lead Agent.

The bathroom door clicks shut, as Chaffer closed it on his way out. On the far side of the black door -- its paint job is clean, but the paint has begun to peel recently -- you hear the shower water sputter and then turn off. The pipes rattle audibly in the ceiling and floor. There's a few minutes of silence, Chaffer and Redman -- just enough that you have time to exchange words, perhaps get an alibi straight, or compare notes --and then the bathroom door opens again. The blond woman reappears.

Her hair is, now that you see it more clearly, a dark blond. Almost brown. Her eyes remain a very pure blue, a very icy blue, or neon robin's egg. Her eyes are also red, a little puffy. Her thin lips are drawn into a frown. Around her, she has drawn a thick, wool shower robe. She clasps the collar in one hand, threading the belt around her hips with the other. She shivers, and you realize its rather cold. She speaks, clearly, affirmatively: "Look, Rick -- Carl didn't tell me he was having any guests today, And I don't much appreciate being walked in on, so you and your mom can just go ahead and get out. Now. Please."

Upon gaining her footing after being nearly knocked off her feet, Redman lets out a deep, and a few half-spoken swears in Chaffer's general direction, before easing up on the grip of her gun. "God, you son... Alright, at least it was just your sorry ass. I got... Well. Let's just focus on getting out of the building, then we'll--"

And then she saw the girl. It took a moment for her to feel the draft in her mouth, and slam her jaw shut, before slowly turning her head to Chaffer, her eyes slitted practically shut. Chaffer, goddam... I am going to...

"Look, Rick -- Carl didn't tell me he was having any guests today, And I don't much appreciate being walked in on, so you and your mom can just go ahead and get out. Now. Please."

Mom. MOM. Chaffer, you... I could just say he slipped down the stairs... but then the PAPERWORK... Redman stared at her for just a moment too long, before snapping her face into a smile. "Yes, dearie, (Dearie, that's what OLD PEOPLE say, isn't it, lady? Son of a...) so sorry to bother you, best be on our way, eh, RICK!?" She grabs Chaffer the slightest bit too roughly by the arm and heads for the stairs. Slowly as she walks, she tilts her head and whispers.

"Let's just get as far out of the perp's bedroom as we can, regroup, and wait for Carver. Unless you've got any more sights you wanted to peek at."

She wakes up and everything is there, everything is wrong. Dead music vanishing from the air. She takes a deep breath and goes to touch the bed, but there's a scream, so she opens the door and looks out into the hall, going slow. She waits a moment until she hears Chaffer and Redman, and she comes up quietly, seeing them on their way towards the stairs.

"To be fair I was inserted into the room with the naked woman...I didn't barge in." Chaffer gestures Carver over as they continues to walk briskly to the exit " No real time to explain. Just keep your eye on the exit and act awkward. " He looks back at the woman yelling and points down at Carver "Second cousin." he smiles and then exits the building.

"For the record, Redman. I don't think people born outside of the 19th century used the term "dearie"."

if the others didn't follow him outside, he is talking to them through a window or something

Once outside, Redman gathers the team together, leans in, and begins to whisper.

"Alright, team, here's the scoop, from what I found in his room. Bed is a mess--that means the trail is fresh. And I found a pair of jazz club tickets in there. That gives a list of possible locations, a tagalong--meaning a victim--and most importantly, a timeframe. If we want to pick this guy up, we move, and we move now. Now, the question is, do we know how many Jazz clubs there are in this place? There can't be many, right? Pop culture is nonexistent."

Carver, your fingers are inches from the bed when you hear the scream. You're inserted, you're aware, and you're bounding out the door into the skinny hallway. At one end of it, a window facing the raining gray street -- a door halfway down the hall, with a bathrobe-bound woman looking angrily in your direction. You hear hushed voices from the other direction, and turning your head you see Redman frog-marching Chaffer through a square sitting room towards an iron spiral staircase.

You follow after them, leaving the angry woman in your wake. Chaffer sees you, tells you to act awkward before he calls over his shoulder, pointing at you. "Second cousin," he says. Chaffer is the first down the stairs, manhandled by Redman. She follows.

The stairs are skinny, a one-person-at-a-time affair. Waiting for your turn, you can scan the living room you've all marched through. A brown couch, a chocolate recliner. No leather, all textiles. A small record shelf. A radio as tall as a man's waist, all nobs and tubes and nuevo art deco arches printed on its sides. Two large rectangular window stand against the far wall from you, with the radio wedged between them. Through the glass, gray rooftops of little shops with little colorful canopies extending from storefronts. The rain persists, and it sounds like rice sliding down a cardboard tube.

Your loafers, Agents, slap the black intertwined lattice work of the iron staircase. It rattles bitterly like aluminum scaffolding at a construction sight, or chains supporting a two-ton payload; aching to give out with age and wear. Around and around in circles you go, down maybe eight feet but it feels farther. You can spy a mandala collage on the bottom floor just in front of the front door. It's all little stones of red, blue, and yellow forming a bullseye of sorts: a thick yellow border of shells or rocks containing two skinny circles of red and blue, made of chips of glass or bakelite. Your loafers come off of the winding staircase, followed by your legs and the rest of you, and you're standing in a skinny square vestibule.

The stairs are behind you, leading up to the white archway of the living room you just left -- in which now stands the woman, watching you expectantly, waiting for you to leave. In front of you, a black wooden door with a little brass mailslot set at about eye level, just above a peephole. And out the three of you go, one of you grabbing a brass doorknob set in the middle of the black door. You step onto the sidewalk outside, and you feel the rain come down on the three of you.

At about the same time, you hear a meager rattle, like small naked feet on the stairs, and the locks on the door slide into place behind you.

The rain is thin and weak sheets, like humidity pretending to be rain, like someone told it if it tried really hard one day maybe it could. Its all skinny long drops, all six inches apart from one another. The kind that children play Dodge The Raindrops in, the kind that doesn't interrupt business. The rain is tossed in a small warm breeze, and the rain tastes a little like salt water if you get a whiff or a taste of it. Not completely, though. Not like salt water. More like tablesalt water. That's how Blue City is. Tastes are always a little off. The rainwater slides down your suit jackets, pools around your feet. You step off the raised stoop of the building you just left, onto the sidewalk proper. Its stained from gray to that muddy-looking rainwater gray that city sidewalks get in the rain.

"For the record, Redman. I don't think people born outside of the 19th century used the term 'dearie,'" Chaffer says, ribbing the Lead Agent.

You hear a thick tangle of voices and accents shouting off around the corner to your left -- the market Redman and Carver spied as they exited Daniels' bedroom. To your right, you hear the thick bloated grumble of antique cars rolling along, cobblestone gravel crunching under rubber tires. You see a car disappear around a corner that way and it's all curves and swept wings and wide body, the way they used to be, when they were all steel and no airbags. Car traffic is rare. You see one other -- a red sexy sports thing -- pass by in the other direction. Most traffic is foot traffic, but there are parking spots along the street, marked with pale blue paint on the pale gray curbs of the sidewalk.

No cross walks. Traffic lights, but they're mounted on poles that've oxidized dull green on the street corners, with little signs that flip up with a ding and say Go or Stop in the twisty nonsense words of the City.

As for the foot traffic: it moves around in kind of a haze as far as any of you are concerned. More like a living photograph, over-exposed, and blurred from too much motion captured for far too long. Or like a colorful cloud of fog drifting over the streets, mingling with the hissing steam the rain throws off the rocks. You're left standing in a sea of lives half-lived, half-recognized -- like speeding traffic, with you stranded on the shoulder of the road. But, when you turn you head, and lock your eyes with one of those blurs, one of those clouds, one of those maybe-ghosts or almost-memories, it suddenly snaps into view and becomes crisp and alive. It suddenly has a face and a mouth and a body and you can really see it and its real.

This Personality is old, with weathered features and a lazy eye and a ratty knitted cap. Or that one, with the neatly combed hair, folded over like sheets in the morning of a nice hotel. This one now, this woman on the other side of the street, in pearls and a black number with an umbrella. Or maybe that newspaper salesman on the opposite end of the street, hawking the news to anyone who will drop him a coin. You stare at them, and they're there, real, physical, alive. Laughing at jokes you hear come from the people-haze, before you tilt your head and suddenly the joke-teller exists, like a shutter lifted from your eyes. Another cries, hearing some tragic news. Yet another disappears around a corner, a purse in his hand, an old-style black-uniform (military-buttoned) police officer with billy club giving chase.

Redman huddles you all, shares her findings. With the look you got at the place before you stepped out, you have a sense of things. That was a home. A loft. A flat. Something of the sort. That woman, likely Carl's girlfriend. Likely to be the victim if Carl is not found and something done about him.

As for finding Carl. The people on the street might be some help, although 'can you point us to a jazz club' may not be the best of plans. Asking Control is of course an option, although so soon after insertion may be cast a bit of doubt on anyone's competence. Of course, Lead Agent Redman is expected to take this moment to go ahead and report in that insertion was successful -- a question thrown in with that report would probably be fine.

The "people"? The Personalities, that is. They Populate Blue City. They're kind of ghost like, kind of sort of there. Corner of your eye, a blur, a haze, a dash past your line of sight. Like an over-exposed olympic runner, or an over-exposed rave party -- yeah, that second one. But as soon as you focus on one of those hazes, it snaps into reality and its all people and they're real, breathing, living, acting things. Not computer programs, not really anything that'd make you not believe they'll bleed if you pull something.

That woman in the shower probably would've just been a haze if Chaffer hadn't appeared to perfectly stare her in the eyes. Bad luck, yo.

As for things now: Redman is expected to report in that everything is a-okay. Just reporting in doesn't require a Roll. Getting information from Control with Access (Intelligence), or gear with (Logistics), or directions navigating the bullshit topography of the City with (Navigation) will require a roll, as per normal.

Alternatively, getting information from a passerby who doesn't want to help would be Insight (Communication)... but then again, so would be getting information from a passerby when you don't actually have a name of a jazz club to go by. Any of you can roll that with +1 since Redman got a good look at the ticket and could at least be vague "the ticket had a yellow crown on it? so maybe that means something?" That +1 would not add to your HR. The game is nice like that.

Rule things: Finally, about Target Heart Rates (like Redman is in). While in your Target Heart Rate, you can roll As Many Dice As You Want.

Once more:

You Can Roll As Many Dice As You Want While In Your Target Heart Rate.

You have 2 Access? Want to roll 3 dice? Do it. Want to roll 4 dice? Do it. 5 dice? Do it. 11 dice? Do it.

You add the sum to your HR, of course, like normal. If you roll 11 dice and get 11 ones, then you add +11. Lucky you. If you get 11 sixes, well I'm sorry, but add +66.

But sometimes, rolling 4 dice once hurts you less than rolling 2 three times. Ya know?

Also, while in your THR: WHEN YOU ROLL ANY 6s WHILE IN YOUR THR, YOU EARN 1 COMMENDATION POINT.

Roll a 5 6 1? One CP. Roll a 1 1 6? One CP. Roll a 6 6 6? One CP. Roll a 6? One CP. You get the idea.

You spend Commendation Points to activate some Techniques. See the OP about those.

When you earn 10 Commendation Points total, you can purchase a New Talent (ta da character advancement explained!)

Chaffers stares at the other two for a moment hoping they would come up with something but they seemed to be drawing a blank just as he was.

"Alright well I guess I'll just go ask...............someone?"

He turns and looks a bit disappointed at the lack of initiative . Chaffer starts walking, he lets various blurs walk by him. He waits for someone of interest to pass by him- someone he could see visiting a club. Someone relatively young, someone who looks like they might have a good handle of the downtown scene and was open to talking to him as opposed to a worker be on their way back from a lunch break. He spots a young man, blond hair slicked back, black vest buttoned vest, stripped pants, white shirt, and he was whistling- all relaxed like. This seemed like a good one.

Just as the man was about to pass him by he raised his index finger "Excuse me." he put his mouth in front of his mouth for a moment " Sorry to bother you"
"I'm new to town and I'm suppose to meet a buddy at a jazz club nearby and I lost the address." Chaffer flicks his fingers as if trying to remember details "I feel like it might have the word "Crown" somewhere in the title or the might have some of Nat King Cole's memorabilia from back when he played down here." Chaffer looks as confused as he sounds, he is hoping something he says will ring a bell in the passerby's mind

Redman watches Chaffer, a satisfied grin on her face. Way to go, soldier.

As he chats with the passing Personality, she turns to Carver, ushers her aside, and begins to plot.

"Alright, so what do we know on this guy? He specializes in one-on-one isolation, right? Long-term plans. And if his last episode was any indication, he cracks when the plan breaks. So. If we want to beat him, we need to keep him guessing, get him frustrated enough to break, and then take advantage of that. Get him to slip up. Push his buttons. And most importantly, we need to get him away from whomever he's there with.

Now, the question is, how do we do that? We could send in Chaffer, see if he could work his charms, get him angry enough to get outside. That'd work, but he's our muscle, putting him out in front could be risky. We could attempt to flag down the girl--pose as distant friends, perhaps, playing to his hatred of support networks--that'd set him off, but it puts the girl in danger if he snaps too soon. There's always the option of pulling rank, but then he risks snapping in the club, which is bad news all around.

How do you feel taking point, Carver? Maybe if you slink in and try to cause something between him and the girl, perhaps? Because if we can get her angry, then maybe she'll high-tail it out of there, with him following suit, at which point we can stage an ambush."

For a moment, she seems quite uncomfortable at the idea. She's thinking of being close, being so close, to this fucker. But then she soldiers up, clears her throat. Glances at Chaffer.

"I see what you mean, yeah. That's kosher." She looks down at herself. "Maybe requisition some new duds? I go in there right now, it's like I'm his Mom putting the moves on him." She cracks a self-deprecating smile.

I'm waiting to see if Egos gets any kind of lead. If not, I'll hop in with Navigation.

Redman puts a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry--you're not going in alone. We'll be in the building, watching every move, and I'll be checking in periodically, to keep him frustrated. And listen." Her face warms, her shoulders lower. "Carver, I promise you, I will not let anything happen. You know me, Carver. And he may be new," she says, looking over her shoulder, "but this kid is good. All I ask is you trust me on this. This might be the only way."

Hey guys, sorry for slacking on my end in posting -- I've had a busy work week these past few days. Lots of training stuff. I'm going out of town tomorrow, but I'll be back on Monday. I'll post things if I can over the weekend, but no promises. Have to visit my family!

@weirdspaceships: totally a legit use of Access (Logistics), do it if you want to! Also, still need to use Navigation to get around Blue City, even with directions. It has strange dream geography filled with primrose streets and the like. Having a specific place to look out for, though, I'll give you a +1 on the roll.

zzzz

The young guy, Chaffer, is just strolling by -- whistling to himself -- when you get his attention. You catch snippets of his tune. It's like a Blues Swing-revamp of All Along The Watchtower, all boppy and swinging from note to note. You can almost hear what it'd be like if a killer sax player took a swing at that ditty. TheresGOT-tabeSOMEway...outtahere. He's cut short when he stops himself mid-stride, halfway in and out of the street, toe of his loafer upturned on the stones. The rain has left a couple trailing marks down the front of his vest, but nothing permanent. A single lock of his slicked back hair has come loose and sticks to his damp forehead.

"Crown, friend? Yeah, I think I know the joint you're talking about. King's Ransom, a neat little jazz place -- but that's nowhere near here, friend!" He loops an arm over your shoulder and points in the opposite direction you've been facing -- down towards where the red muscle car sped off beneath a bridge and into an underground tunnel. He smells like shoe polish and ink. His fingers are stained blue. Book-binder, or something.

"King's Ransom is down in Diamond Square, friend. You..." and he looks back towards Carver and Redman with a raised eyebrow, observing your uniforms. "...and your partners will have to catch the tram or the subway out to the Diamond Square Station. All right, friend?"

He looses his arm from your shoulder and turns to continue his hot-trot across the street. But he pauses, Chaffer, and turns back to you. And his friendly demeanor is gone. His smile is a frown; his bright eyes seem more sunken suddenly, weighted down by bags under his eyes. He stoops slightly, like a dog that's been beaten. "Hey, uh, friend. Look... I did my part, right? I helped? I looked out for the guys in the suits -- you guys -- and I answered whatever you wanted. That's what I was told ta do. I did my part. I'm done right? Things... things can go back to normal now, right?"

He swallows hard. He's perspiring. And then his eyes unfocus, like he's looking past you. They then sharpen, and they're huge like dinner plates, as though he's seen a ghost. Without another word, he sprints across the street, into the thin alleyway between two fat, gray buildings -- the black iron gate clattering wide open when he throws his body into it. You can hear his loafers splashing through gray puddles. You hear tires squeal on stone, kicking up pebbles.

If you glance behind you, you catch the tail lights of a car just escaping around the corner. Squat square tail lights, burning red in the gray City haze. Modern tail lights. Black sedan, if you were to take an educated guess. Probably four doors. Uncommon in Blue City. A Company car.

You have your answer, Agent Chaffer. King's Ransom jazz club, in the Diamond Square district. Someone just needs to roll Navigation to deal with the city's winding topography, and keep terrible things from happening to you.

Redman turns her head just in time to hear the car pull around the corner. She slowly moves her hand off Carver's shoulder and takes a few furtive steps.

"... Hold on a sec. Carver, try and get directions from control. I'm going to bum us a ride." She begins to race towards the corner at a surprising speed, even for her. But it's still not enough, and she ends up at the corner, gasping for breath as the car speeds away.

Chaffer starts to walk back to the other two, a look of satisfaction on his face when he expression changes to confusion as he watches Redman chasing after locomotive for seemingly no fruitful purpose. "What was that about?" He asks Carver from behind.

"Anyway, I found our spot. King's Ransom. The guy I spooked seemed to like the place..." Chaffer looks a bit forlorn at the mention of spooking the man but the expression is quickly erased "Apparently we can take the tram or subway down to the station in Diamond Square and we'll be right there." He enunciates Diamond Square especially to make sure Carver hears him.

Redman comes back, tail firmly between her legs. "Sorry, saw a Company car, got curious, figured maybe we could hitch a ride, help them out in return. But alas, it wasn't to be. Anyway! We ready to go?"

Heart Rate: 97 bpm
"We know the name of the place. King's Ransom, down in Diamond Square. So let's get to it, boss man." Carver says to Redman

"Yeah what she said..." Chaffer looks off to the side expecting Redman to be displeased by news he is about to deliver "Thing is apparently we need to take the tram or subway to get there. Going by foot is apparently not... viable."

Thank you guys for bearing with me. Work was training, then a vacation to family, then work was killer when I got back. Blah blah blah!

All right, I'm gonna make a long post dealing with the car and navigation, and then you guys can take it from there.

zzzzzz

Redman takes off in a sprint, Carver, leaving you on the sidewalk with Chaffer. Her loafers click and clack on the stone slabs of Blue City, kind of like a teacher's shoes in a high school hallway. There's a strange echo effect to them as the sound gets swallowed up and spat out by the squat gray buildings all around you. She tromps through a couple shallow puddles, muscles around a crowd of miasmal Personalities -- a cloud that crystallizes into focus for the rest of you as the group turns in unison to regard Redman's retreating form. They dissipate a moment later, back into the blur of activity they were previously. Their over-exposed cloud blocks your line of sight to Lead Agent Redman.

You don't see what she sees when she reaches the end of the street. You don't see her skid to a stop on the thick backs of her shoes. You don't see the black four-door nearly skin its tires bald with the ferocity with which it took the corner. You don't see the back left wheel hop the curb and nearly take Redman out, its red taillights shining like the rosy cheeks on some grinning motherfucker. And you don't see the woman and the man in the driver and passenger seats -- black suits, black glasses, one of them with their head tilted and their mouth mumbling out something imperceptible. Redman does, of course. And the driver, the woman, looks at you for an instant before the car screams off into the alley, whipping around a corner into a tunnel. The sound of its squealing tires and growling engine drags on, softening as it gains distance from you.

You're left standing in its wake as it kicks up pebbles, exhaust, and a small spray of rainwater.

Redman heads back to the others.
Meanwhile, Carver has inclined her head and called up Control, fishing for some clarity on what Blue City's layout is today.

Lookiing for a way to Kiing's Ransom, Agent let mee take a lookseee at the map wee've got heere all right tell mee what's around you ahuh i seee okay

And he walks you through it. Left turns, right turns, tunnels you'll need to dip under and canals you'll need to cross to reach a nearby tram. He briefs you on Deep Blue Zones, telling you to stay out of a coffee shop you pass as he acts as shepherd for you all. The mental connection is persistant, Carver, and he actively leads you once the three of you are back together. Across a street, dodging a long, wide gray convertible. He counts to five out loud and then tells you all to cut down an alley that wasn't there a moment before; suddenly a brick wall to your side was a skinny, winding road flanked by picket fences. Just as quickly, on the far side of it, you see it evaporate -- stuttering in and out of view like old film in the reel -- and become a brick wall once again.

You reach the station without event. Above your heads, strung from telephone pole to telephone pole, criss-crossing like an electric spider's web, you see power lines and tram cables. Networked, all wrapped up in one another, bolted to buildings and street lamps and disappearing into service tunnels and gathering on rooftops. Your ears feel the felt-scratch of static in the air, tickling your hair follicles -- like the altitude has changed, or the air pressure has gone down and your ears need to pop. Clouds of Personalities float along around you, gathering on the white marble dais on the far side of the street where a thick gray cable hangs, taut, all by its lonesome. A number of maps and signs and schedules are hung up on placards and pin boards, all illegible to you. Swirling Blue City script remains impenetrable, but luckily Control gives it to you simply: be on the next tram that comes through.

Then, your ears start to tingle a little harder. A little more severely than just the buzz of active power lines and live third rails. Standing on the platform, the tram a hundred yards away and closing in, each of you hears the skull-splitting shriek of feedback. Like a microphone held too close to a speaker, picking up the sound of the mic picking up the sound of the mic picking up the sound of the mic... maybe an ear starts to bleed. Maybe it just really feels that way and you clutch at the sides of your head. Control is in the middle of telling you M.Ee. says thee tape of Daniiels' interview will bee down heere soon, they're just cleariing up some paperwork but he cuts out on 'clearing' with a shrill rumble heard in the back of your skull.

And then you pick up another voice in your ears. Not Control, not your Control, but it sounds like TV static just the same, but overloaded and threatening to shake the set to splintered pieces:

YES, I SAID DELAY THE TAPE. THERE'S NOTHING RELEVANT TO THE INVESTIGATION. THEY WON'T BE ENDANGERED IF THEY HAVE TO WAIT ANOTHER HOUR-RELATIVE, BUT WAITING ON IT SHOULD KEEP THEM STALLED WHILE THE PROVOCATEUR TEAM GETS INTO POSITION. YES, THERE WAS A RUN-IN, BUT THEY REPORT NO MEANINGFUL CONTACT.

WE WANT HIM SCARED. MYTHOGRAPHY NEEDS TO SEE WHAT HE CAN DO. YES. FOR SCIENCE. WHAT? HE'S TALKING TO THEM RIGHT NOW? SHI--

The banshee-wail of static is swallowed up by the screams of iron-on-iron as the tram's wheels lock and it slows to a stop at the platform. Sparks vomit forth from beneath it, little orange fireworks spraying across your shoes and sizzling out as they bounce into the accumulated rain water on the road and in the gutters. Your ears pound but your skulls are no longer rumbling. A sign on the side of the tram flips a dozen playing card-sized panels and spells out gibberish, but the driver gets on the horn and announces it's bound for Diamond Square Station. The doors open, folding sideways like a bus' doors, and the inside is all wood panel seats and beige paint with blood red trim. The tram is clammy, collecting droplets of steaming rain water. The cloud of Personalities around you float on-board, finding seats or handles and arranging themselves throughout.

--tell Leead Agent Redman I'm veryy sorryy, but apparentlyy M.Ee. is takiing another quickyy lookyy listen at that tape, it'll bee another hour-relative beefore I can get it in my hands, mans. I advise findiing a nice place to just wait it out.

At the tram. It'll drop you into Diamond Square. Also, other stuff.

Good navigation roll, Carver.

If you need a reminder, the tape you all asked to listen to was of how Daniels reacted during interrogation about the murder of Elizabeth Dewlittle; the interrogation during which he confessed to the other killings in the past years.

Carver:105bpmChaffer:97bpmRedman:119bpm

Remember, roll 6s during Target Heart Rate and you get Commendation Points. Commendation Points fuel Techniques, and 10 of them earn you Character Advancement.

BPM: 119bpm
"... Son of a..." Redman tries to find the words, tries to say something, anything to her time. "Cock-maggots. Son of a bitch cock-maggots. Alright, guys. Alright. We just have to be calm. We're not alone in here, we know that. I got a quick look--man and woman, Mystery Agent uniforms. Stay on the lookout when we get down there. If we see them--anyone wearing our gear in there--we drop the plan, go in heavy, and take him down before they rile him up, got it? It ain't perfect, but goddamnit, it's something. Until then, we keep it cool--they want him scared, I say we leave them disappointed." She bites her lip, just a little too hard.

As the tram arrives, Redman breathes, buttons her jacket, squeezes her eyelids shut, mutters a few obscenities under her breath, and climbs aboard.

Chaffer follows Redman calmly into the tram. He tightens his tie and quickly looks over the blurs that soon sharpen into human beings. Unsure of who may be listening he keeps his tone low , as so only the three nearby him can hear

"I'm sure it's crossed both of your minds. But odds are we are the bait. They reach him first, intentionally let him escape their grasp then let us get close enough to apprehend him. And guess who he mistakes us for." Chaffer gestures to his suit "First thing I suggest is we requisition us some new clothing. We turn the situation on them. We play the part of rescuer." Chaffer smirks nervously unsure of his plan